


Anecdoche

by areticentreader



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9786761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areticentreader/pseuds/areticentreader
Summary: n. a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, simply overlaying disconnected words like a game of Scrabble, with each player borrowing bits of other anecdotes as a way to increase their own score, until we all run out of things to say.{The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows}





	1. n » Anecdoche

**{ s u m m a r y }**

n. a conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, simply overlaying disconnected words like a game of Scrabble, with each player borrowing bits of other anecdotes as a way to increase their own score, until we all run out of things to say.  
{The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows}

{ p r o m p t s } pieces based on writing prompts.  
{ a n d } short extensions of my stories.  
{ c i r c u m s t a n c e } pieces based off another’s work.  
{ b r i c o l a g e } remnants of my thoughts.

* * *

**{ e p i g r a p h }**

A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.{Essays of Three Decades, Thomas Mann}

**{ d e d i c a t i o n }**

To myself, for no one will ever read my work as I have and care about it quite as I have. This one is for me, for I must remember to listen to myself even when no one else is.

**{ a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s }**

Thanks to God, for giving me a mind for words and a laptop to type them as well as a world of inspiration from which I can draw.

**{ w a r n i n g }**

» death, suicide, and the like  
» heartache and heartbreak  
» old, ancient writing  
» random, disconnected pieces

* * *

**{ p r e f a c e }**

This book is a compilation of pieces that I’ve written yet have no separate home for. Unless otherwise stated, do not expect any of the pieces to be connected to each other. That’s all; please enjoy!


	2. { p r o m p t s } College Student, Crumpled Paper, Train, Laptop

Kenneth Karret was on a train, seated across from a lawyer who seemed to be finishing a difficult case. From the little snippets of the lawyer’s phone conversation, Kenneth understood that it was a custody battle. The father was about to be proven as an unfit parent for the four-year-old girl. He sighed. That lawyer may as well have been his ex-wife’s.

He didn’t want to think of her. Why she decided to pursue custody of their four-year-old daughter, Lillia, three years after he left was beyond him. His ex-wife, Aresie, had always been so strange. He’d been in love with her differences for a while, but they grew boring after their first year of marriage. By the end of it, before the divorce, they had been fighting, often making one-year-old Lillia cry.

Perhaps Kenneth was a terrible father. After all, he had walked out on his family and didn’t look back until the court summoned him.

The train car halted. He supposed it was his stop. The lawyer stood, too, as if he was going to the same place as Kenneth. Kenneth certainly hoped it wasn’t so; that would be awkward. To Kenneth’s relief, the lawyer boarded another train.

He looked down at the court summons in his hand. He was supposed to meet with Aresie at one in the courthouse with Judge Tutwright. Glancing at his wristwatch, he saw that he had two hours before the hearing began. He decided to grab a cup of coffee before facing his ex-wife. He also figured that it wouldn't do him any good if he fell asleep before the judge because of the long trip.

Kenneth ordered his coffee black, earning a strange look from the teenaged barista. He didn't care what she thought. He was about to lose custody of his only child later, anyway. A stranger's opinion didn't matter.

The only other customer in the coffee shop was a college student, feverishly working on a paper of sorts. Kenneth laughed as he remembered those carefree days, without marriages, ex-wives, or custody battles to worry about. He realized it wasn’t long ago when he and Aresie were that age. They had married straight out of college, when they were only twenty-four.

Kenneth and Aresie shared the same birthday. April 17. Again, he laughed. That was only in a couple of days. Aresie probably thought winning custody over Lillia would be her birthday present.

He didn't want to give up on Lillia so easily, but he knew he would never win custody because he had been the one to leave. He also couldn’t make the commitment to Lillia that she deserved.

He conjured up all his good memories with Lillia and Aresie. There were many memories to recall, but only a few didn’t lead to disaster. As he downed the last drop of his strong coffee, he realized his appointment with the court was still an hour away.

Kenneth decided to make his way to the courthouse. It wouldn’t do him any good if he was late because he decided he didn’t want to leave early for the hearing. He glanced down at the court summons again, trying to find a route to the address on the paper. His knowledge was severely lacking in these unfamiliar surroundings, forcing him to ask the barista for directions.

Unfortunately, she did not know where the courthouse was, but the college student did, and soon he was on his way. When he arrived at the courthouse, he checked his watch and noted that he still had fifteen minutes before the hearing began. Kenneth marched bravely up the steps, pausing before the large glass doors. A sudden burst of anger filled him. He couldn’t help it; this court hearing was insanity itself. It was all pointless.

When his fury subsided, Kenneth made sure to pass by a trash can to discard the crumpled paper that his court summons had become. He asked the receptionist behind the desk for directions to the room in which he was supposed to lose his only daughter.

The judge let Aresie and her lawyer speak first, then Kenneth. He didn’t want to give up Lillia, but he knew it was the best thing for her. Before he confessed to the judge that Lillia would be better off with Aresie, though, Aresie’s sister walked into the room with Lillia, making excuses that she only wanted her mother. Kenneth’s heart stopped as he watched his four-year-old daughter rush in an awkward toddler’s gait into her mother’s arms.

He wanted to hug her, to spend time with her. A rush of memories overwhelmed him. Aresie had been using their laptop to find a new home; the landlord had chosen to evict them. Kenneth had been playing dolls with one-year-old Lillia, and Aresie joined in the fun after giving up the house search for the next day. They had actually been a happy family.

Kenneth realized he couldn’t let go of Aresie and Lillia. Not here, not when he was so close. If he distanced himself, he could do it easily. But he wasn’t far away.

The judge prompted Kenneth to continue. He asked for a recess. The judge sighed, but called for a ten-minute recess. Kenneth rushed out of the room, eager to clear his head and give up custody of Lillia. To let Aresie live the rest of her life in peaceful bliss.

He couldn't look at Lillia. His daughter, only four years old, already had a bewitching power that could stop a grown man from accomplishing what he needed to do.

Aresie followed him out of the room, carrying Lillia in her arms, and stared at him strangely. He glared back at her, darkly. Why was she doing this to him again? It wasn’t fair. He shared these thoughts with her.

Lillia began to cry, pointing at Kenneth. Aresie hushed her quickly, before retorting that she only wanted Lillia to have some closure.

Kenneth’s fury subsided, and he explained to her what he planned to do. Aresie’s eyes fell a little as she replied that that was what she thought was best, too.

Again, anger filled him. He knew as well as she that this wasn’t what any of them wanted. Not Aresie, not Kenneth, and certainly not Lillia. Though they both knew that they could never become a happy couple again, Kenneth argued that they could at least share custody. He didn’t care if that meant that he was only able to see Lillia once or twice every month.

Aresie bit her lip nervously. He could tell that she agreed with his idea, but she told him that her lawyer wouldn’t agree with the decision. Kenneth informed her that it was her decision now, not her lawyer’s. With impeccable timing, Aresie’s lawyer came to fetch her.

The judge again asked Kenneth what he thought would be best for Lillia. Kenneth answered that he would gladly give Aresie primary custody as long as he could take Lillia over to his residence once or twice a month. Aresie’s lawyer strongly objected this, but Kenneth watched in awe as Aresie quieted him and informed the judge that she agreed with Kenneth’s choice. The lawyer strongly objected this, too, but this time, the judge quieted him. The judge ruled in favor of Kenneth’s and Aresie’s decision because they were both in agreement. Then, the case was dismissed.

Kenneth quickly left the room, eager to escape the suffocation. He sat down on the steps leading up to the courthouse, exhausted.

He heard Aresie calling out his name and turned to see her rushing towards him with Lillia in her arms. He stood, and she gave him a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Kenneth nodded in response.


	3. { p r o m p t s } "You can all go home now."

None of us ever wanted this.

Four of the others screamed as it dove in for the attack. They were not the first to go.

There had been the small, scared boy who was not even supposed to be with us, but of course he had to follow his older sister. She had cried at his death, but crying only attracted it and led to her own death.

Then there was that smart girl, who had not deemed it necessary to run when she was attacked. All she had done was stand there, calling out about how it was all right. It was not even real, she had said, and the boy had just died because he hit his head wrong and his sister had killed herself out of shock. Perhaps she had hit her own head wrong, too, because she fell in the next moment. That would never explain why her organs were spilling out onto the carpeted floor.

The house itself was not very frightening. In fact, it was rather stunning. The previous owners had definitely been filthy rich, judging by the amount of gold trimming in the house. Nobody knew why they had simply disappeared ten years ago. I suppose we knew now.

We were missing more than the seven that we had watched die. None of us wanted to go look for them, however, because that would give away our position. Their lives were not worth nearly as much as our own.

Then it found us. I looked it straight in the eye, and it attacked, screeching. The sound had been terrible. That much I remember. I tried to dodge it by leaping to the side, and it snatched up the girl beside me. She died instantly.

I scrambled to the door, hoping it would be distracted by the others. Instead, my fumbling brought me to its attention. It shrieked with that terrifying noise and dove. I flattened myself on the ground, hoping for the best.

I was proud of being the first of its victims to survive so long, though I doubted that this would continue any longer. Perhaps I had a chance if I could just reach the door.

I was too slow. I felt something sharp closing around my stomach just before I reached the door knob. I wondered what death tasted and felt like because I had already heard, seen, and smelled it.

However, it never came.

I never caught a glimpse at our savior. I doubt any of us saw him because we had all bolted at the sound of his voice saying, “You can all go home now.”

I suppose I was very lucky.


	4. { p r o m p t s } His eyes were the color of worn silver dollars, and they demanded absolute attention.

I swallowed thickly. Then, I glanced at him again. Then, I turned back to the table. “I didn’t mean to. Honestly. I didn’t think that would happen.” The warmth from my mug didn't help much under the chill of his glare.

"Of course you didn't think," he stated matter-of-factly. "You never do."

I gulped again, then again. I willed my hot chocolate to refill itself, just so I could avoid his glare. However, I knew I could not. I glanced up again. His eyes were the color of worn silver dollars, and they demanded absolute attention. "I didn't mean to," I repeated weakly.

"The fact of the matter is you did, whether you meant to or not, and I haven't even heard an apology from you."

"I'm sorry," I supplied quickly. I pleaded with myself to turn away, to run away, to hide away. I couldn't do it. I was trapped by the slivers of silver.

"Your apologies are of no consequence now. It happened. What are you going to do about it now?"

I finished off my hot chocolate, ignoring the searing pain. "I don't know."

"That is a problem. You need to know."

I wished I could get angry. I wished I could glare directly into his eyes and snap at him, telling him he couldn't tell me what to do and that I was perfectly capable of fixing things myself. However, wishes were but whispers of the wind, and they were easily gone. Instead, I cowered under the intensity of his stare. "I'll fix it somehow."

"I'm sure you will," he quipped. "What made you think to do it in the first place?"

"I don't know," I confessed honestly. "I just—I never imagined it wouldn't work. Everything seemed fine at the time. Everything was going so well, but then it all stopped working. I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm not even sure how; it was fine before. I had no clue beforehand that it wouldn't work—Honestly, I didn't. It was all so sudden; I didn't even think about the consequences of it failing because it had been doing so well before, and—"

"However, it did fail. It is still a problem. You need to fix it. You don't know how to fix it, or you never thought to fix it. That in itself is a problem."

I set my mug on the table. "I know."

"At least you know that much," he muttered under his breath. "I'm not going to help you with this. You need to figure out for yourself how to get out of your own grave."

I hoped that whatever expression I was making would be enough to convince him to reconsider. "No, please help me. I can't do this by myself, no matter how hard I try, no matter what I do. I can't—It's become so much worse. It's irreparable, impossible; I don't know what to do. I need help." I wished my voice would stop breaking.

"I'm afraid my hands are tied. I've already come to a decision. Good luck."

I leapt up to stop him from leaving. "No! Please stay. Please help me. You can't go! You can't leave me here to try to fix it myself. I can't do it. It's impossible! Please!" I cried out, but he was gone.

A pair of hands held me back. "Kayden! Stop this!"

I screamed and tore myself away. I needed him to come back, to help me fix this mess. "Let go of me! He's gone, and I need to get him back. He's gone! He can't be gone. I need him. I can't fix this by myself. Let go!"

The hands had returned, gripping me tightly.

His eyes were the color of worn silver dollars, and they demanded absolute attention. They would never demand my attention ever again.


	5. { p r o m p t s } "One bullet is a lifetime supply."

The gun clattered on the table as he laughed. "I'll make you a deal."

My eyes didn’t move from the gun. “What kind of deal?”

He walked closer to me, standing right behind me. “If you can get out of this place, I’ll let you go free. I’ll even give you this gun.” He leaned close to my ear. “Isn’t that such a great deal?”

I shifted away from him. “What’s the catch?” After all, there was always a catch.

He walked back to his side of the table and sat down. “Well,” he began, “if you don’t make it out, I’ll make sure you’re dead.” He picked up the gun. “Also, the gun only has one bullet.” He pointed the gun at his temple. “One bullet is a lifetime supply, after all. You have multiple ways to freedom.” He threw the gun back down on the table. “So what do you say?”

“I’d rather just leave, thanks,” I tossed back at him. Suicide wasn’t an option. Suicide was never an option. I was going to make out it alive, and I was going to make it out okay.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, how to get you out?” He produced another gun from behind his back and cocked it against his temple again. “See you on the other side, I guess.”

I choked on air when he pulled the trigger and collapsed on the floor. How could he have just killed himself in front of me?

A guard rushed in to see what was wrong, and I instinctively grabbed the gun from off the table. I aimed it at guard, who immediately put his hands in the air.

_Also, the gun only has one bullet._

I cursed inwardly, realizing I couldn’t just waste my only bullet on the unarmed guard in front of me.

He sensed my hesitation and began advancing toward me. “Calm down, kid. Let’s be reasonable about this.”

Reasonable? Was locking me up for my entire life reasonable?

I leaped forward, blinded by my sudden rage, and slammed the hilt of the gun against his head. He dropped to the ground with a satisfying crack. I reached over the guard’s body and grabbed the other man’s gun off the ground. I checked to see how much ammo was left in the gun and cursed again when I realized he had used up the last bullet.

Figures.

I had to leave. More guards would come eventually. I crept outside the cell, wary of the possibilities of other guards out there. Seeing that there was no one there, I ran down the corridor, hoping that I’d eventually find my way out.

I managed to stumble across a sign directing passersby to certain areas of the building, and one of those directions pointed to the emergency exit. I bolted in that direction, only to find a small squad of guards waiting for me. Unlike the first guard, they were all armed with the latest firearm tech.

“Put the gun down and come with us quietly if you don’t want to get hurt,” one of the guards demanded. I didn’t know which one had spoken because of the helmets they all wore.

I didn’t want to listen. I charged the nearest guard and cocked my gun under his chin.

The other guards laughed, nervously, might I add. One of them spoke again. “All right, kid. Don’t make us hurt you. Just give it up already.”

_One bullet is a lifetime supply, after all._

I hesitated. Of course, I would rather die than be taken captive once again, but I would also rather escape than die.

One guard took a step forward and made my decision for me.

I pulled the trigger and held my hostage up as a shield, hurling my useless gun at another guard, which didn’t do much good, and snatching the dead guard’s weapon, which did plenty of good. I had taken out all but two before I was hit in the shoulder.

Collapsing, I shot one of them and aimed at the other.

“Just give it up, kid,” he said, pointing his own gun at me. “There are more guards on the way.”

Right on cue, footsteps began to thunder around the corner.

_You have multiple ways to freedom._

Death may have been a few of them, but I didn’t want that. I wanted to escape. I wanted true freedom.

I fired my gun and rushed outside.


	6. { p r o m p t s } "An only son. A folded flag."

I dropped down next to my partner, who was already examining the man. “What will he leave behind, Eni?”

She spared me a quick glance before returning to her work. “An only son. A folded flag. Are you going to help me out or not, Bails?”

I gave her a cheeky smile. “Or not?” Eni glared at me, and I held my hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. _May vestri animus sileo in aeternitas_. Happy?”

“Very,” she replied in a dry voice. “Would you mind leading him this time? I’ll cut the line.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I turned to the man—or, his soul that had left his body—and smiled. “Manako Ihaya? I’ve come to lead you to eternity. Will you please follow me?”

He carefully watched Eni. “Am I dead?”

“Yes, Manako-san.”

“What is she doing?”

I answered patiently, “She’s inspecting your lifeline to make sure that there aren’t any anomalies, but it looks fine.”

“Anomalies?” He chanced a look at me.

I nodded. “Sometimes the lines are tainted, and we have to go back and review them.” When his confused expression didn’t change, I explained even further. “Sometimes people don’t fulfill their purposes, so we have to send them back.”

“You mean like resurrecting them?”

“Well, yes, in a way. They usually aren’t quite dead yet.”

“What about instantaneous deaths?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes the line snaps instead of being cut. It’s messy business then. Also, some of us are faster than others at collecting souls.”

“Are you ready to pass into eternity, Manako-san?” Eni asked suddenly, done with cutting the man’s line. He was now officially dead. “I do apologize, but we do have many other souls to attend to.”

He gulped and looked around at the carnage. “Yes, I suppose so. Is it nice over there?”

I hesitated, but Eni gave him a quick reply. “I’m afraid we are unable to tell you that.”

He nodded. “It’s okay. I’ll go. I hope my son knows I love him.”

I took him by the hand. “I’m sure he does. Goodbye, Manako-san.” I led him through the veil and returned back to earth. “It’s sad. All of this, I mean.”

“Of course,” Eni returned immediately, “but it’s life—or death, I suppose. Plus, it’s our job, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“You don’t,” I muttered.

“Eniola Kanawe! Bailey Garille! The war isn’t going to wait for you to finish fooling around!” our superior called out.

“It’s not like the souls are going to dissipate into the air.”

Eni gave me a look again. “They might be stolen. Besides, if you find it so sad, don’t you want to quicken their deaths and ease their suffering?”

“Of course,” I answered, heading over to the next unattended body. "It's just that this whole war is terrible. I love them to death, but why do they insist on tearing each other apart?"

"In their nature, I guess. What does it matter?"

I shrugged. "Humans are strange, beautiful creatures."


	7. { p r o m p t s } "He is a poem said out loud; I'm a word on the tip of someone's tongue."

**_«dedicated to Mad for creating the prompt»_ **

**"He is a poem said out loud; I'm a word on the tip of someone's tongue."**

I fidget with my sleeve, trying to be convincingly fascinated by the unraveling thread. To be honest, I do find the thread rather interesting. It is doing its best to keep the sweater together and maintain its little world in perfect order, yet here it is, being torn apart at the seams by a whimsical, irrational outside force. Funny how life works.

The girl across from me clears her throat. I remember she has been waiting for the answer to my question for a while now.

"I'm sorry; will you repeat that please?"

She groans and snatches up her pitiful peanut butter and jelly sandwich, working her fingers around the crust to peel it off. "Honestly, do you even care anymore?"

"Who knows?"

"You should!" she bursts, slamming her sandwich down on her plate.

I laugh. "All right, fine. I guess I don't. Why should I?"

"That's my freaking idiot of a brother you're talking about. You were both happier together." Her nimble fingers go back to work on her sandwich.

I laugh again. "Look, no one except you cares anymore. He's fine. Look at him. He got over it."

"No one ever got over it. They're all just pretending, those insufferable poltroons." Having finished with the crusts, she begins eating her sandwich piece by piece. I find myself mesmerized by the way she eats her sandwiches so methodically. I've been mesmerized by her little quirky routines since the day we met.

"All except you, I presume."

"Right. As I said, no one is over it. No one's happy anymore. They're just hiding it. You two need to get back together."

I sigh, turning my attention to my sleeve again. "They look just fine to me."

"As I said, they're pretending."

I sigh again. Desperation can lead to the most appealing conclusions, but they are often wrong and wishful thinking. "Even if they are," I concede, knowing that we would never move past this point unless I let it go, "I can't go back to him. There's no way I'm going back to that torture chamber."

"I'd say not being in that relationship is more torture for you."

"I'd beg to differ," I shoot back, tired of the argument. "I'm not going back to him."

She wipes her fingertips on a napkin to rid herself of the nonexistent crumbs from her sandwich. "How was any of it torture for you, anyway?"

I give a low chuckle. Apparently he never told her anything. "It was suffocating. He put so much pressure on me, but you wouldn't understand, now would you?"

She growls. "I won't understand if you don't tell me. I don't see what was so wrong with the relationship. As far as I could tell, all he did was push you a little so you could get out of your stupid comfort zone and live a little."

"No, not that kind of pressure."

"Then what?"

I don't answer for a moment, trying to think of the best way to explain it. "It was the pressure to be perfect."

"What are you even talking about?"

"Before him, I was a nobody. With him, I was somebody—barely. After him, I'm again a nobody. However, during my time as a somebody, I needed to make sure that I could live up to his image. I had to prove that I was worthy of being with him. The only problem was that it didn't work. I screwed up often. I was never good enough. No one took notice of me except to be shocked by my status as his girl. I could never compare." I can tell she's about to open her mouth and talk, but I'm not done yet, so I continue on.

"He was—is—everything anyone could ever want to be. And I just couldn't live up to that. People still don't know who I am, nor do they care. He is a poem said out loud; I'm a word on the tip of someone's tongue. People see him, love him, analyze him, love him some more, and remember him for the rest of their lives. He inspires people. I, on the other hand, am nothing but a sense of familiarity, common knowledge that someone has momentarily lost, something that no one can quite grasp right, and eventually they give up. He gave up. Now I'm giving up. Why won't you give up?"

She narrows her eyes. "You are meant to be together. Besides, you were never anywhere near nothing."

The sardonic laughter bubbles up out of my throat before I can stop it. "You are joking, right? The relationship is over. We're moving on. You need to move on, too, especially because this has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me!"

"As far as I can tell, it doesn't. Since when was the relationship about the three of us? There are you and I, and there are you and he, and he and I don't exist anymore. Just let it go."

"No!" she screams, attracting the attention of the whole cafeteria. "I will not let it go! Neither of you are happy apart!"

"And what makes you think we'll be happy together? You know, we tried, but our sadness together didn't really add up to happiness. I need you to move on from a relationship that doesn't involve you or anyone else for that matter anymore because I am so ready to move on with my life."

She looks like she is about to explode, though she already had. Instead of attacking me, however, she turns on her heel and leaves. I turn back to my sleeve.

And that's the end of it.

The funny thing about endings is that they're much like an unraveled thread. It's fun to fool around with until you actually reach the end of the thread, and you realize that now your sweater is a useless pile of thread. And you realize that you want it back to the way it was. And you realize there's no going back.

Funny how life works.


	8. { c i r c u m s t a n c e } Melting: Ice Cream Series Oneshot

Five is the age when everything begins. A child goes to school at age five. A child loses that first tooth at age five. A child shares colored pencils at age five. However, ten is the age when everything begins again. A child watches her sister pass into oblivion at age ten. A child finds her mother lying dead on the floor at age ten. A child fears the father hitting her at age ten.

A child realizes the world is far, far from perfect at age ten.

* * *

Ashley didn't know when it started, but she knew she didn't want it to stop. It was only right that she, the expert on pain, taught it to others.

"Get out of my way, you fat freak!" she screeched at the disgrace Sebastian was always clinging onto.

It was annoying how much they depended on each other. Infuriating, really, because she didn't have anyone to depend on herself. That was why she reveled in the pain in the pathetic girl's eyes.

Some said that treating others badly took a toll on the person inflicting pain, but Ashley never understood that. She didn't hurt herself by hurting others. She couldn't possibly be hurt by something as insignificant as this.

"That was harsh," a soft voice commented from behind her.

She ignored the heat that flooded her cheeks, and she ignored the way her heart beat faster. Marcus didn't know anything about harsh, and there was no reason to respond because she knew she was not supposed to have heard in the first place. So, she pushed past the love of Sebastian's life and refused to acknowledge the stinging feeling in her chest. Because it didn't hurt her. Nothing could anymore.

When she returned home, the smell of alcohol assaulted her senses. She tried to hurry to her room, though she knew her efforts were useless.

"Ashley!" he called out. Well, no, that wasn't what he said, but she liked to think that he still remembered her name. "Get over here!"

She dutifully turned back to him, willing herself to stop feeling so afraid, for fear never helped anyone. As he struck her, she felt what might have been a warm heart at some point freeze completely, and she knew there would be no use in trying to thaw it.

* * *

_**»Author's Note:** _

I'm sorry this took me so long to enter this oneshot! (I might actually be way too late, but that's okay. I enjoyed challenging myself while writing it.) I'm not completely satisfied with the way this turned out, but I hope you enjoyed it. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to add it as its own story, but I can do that if you need me to. _ **«**_

 

 


	9. { a n d // T r e m o r s } Keta » December 25, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> » keta: [KAY-tah] n. an image that inexplicably leaps back into your mind from the distant past (The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows) «

The first thing I notice is the largeness of Mark's family. He introduces me to all of his extended family and, once the onslaught of names and faces to remember is over, offers to get me a drink. I find myself a seat as I wait for him, engaging in conversation with a couple of his aunts.

_He handed me a mug of hot chocolate as he sat beside me. "Eru, I'm sorry we aren't going anywhere for Christmas this year."_

_I shook my head. "It's fine, Kenny. At least we'll spend it together."_

_He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. "You bet we will, princess."_

Someone clears their throat beside me, and I turn to find Mark extending a paper cup to me. I smile as I take it from him, nodding along with whatever his aunt is saying. The dinner call sounds, and we all gather around the table.

The second thing I notice is the warmth and love the whole family simply exudes.

_I shivered under the duvet, and his arms immediately enveloped me in a warm hug. "Cold, princess?" he chuckled._

_"Maybe a little," I admitted, leaning into him. After a quiet moment, I decided to raise the topic that weighed heavily on my mind the whole day. "Kenny?"_

_He answered with a murmur of assent and began running his fingers through my hair._

_"Do you miss having more family to spend the holidays with?"_

_Almost immediately, his fingers froze, and his body stiffened. "Of course," he whispered so quietly that I almost failed to catch it._

After dinner, the kids open their presents. They squeal with excitement and thank every single person for their gifts, making me smile. The younger ones run off to play with their new toys as soon as the last gift is opened, and I step onto the deck in the backyard, inhaling the chilly air.

The third thing I notice is just how much my first Christmas celebration without Kenny hurts.

_I woke up to him tucking me into bed. I snuggled deeper under the covers, yawning, "Love you, Kenny."_

_"I love you, Eru." He reached for the doorknob, ready to close it behind him, but then paused. "You're all the family I need, you know."_

_I smiled at that. "Merry Christmas, dork."_

_"Merry Christmas, princess."_

I wrap myself tighter in my coat as Mark joins me outside. Concern is painted on his face.

"Are you okay?"

A tight smile tugs at my lips. "No," I answer honestly, "but I will be." I pull an envelope out of my coat pocket and hand it to him. "It isn't much, but—"

Instead of opening it, he slips it into his back pocket and engulfs my hand in his. "Don't worry about it." He grins at me. "Merry Christmas, my dear Erunai."

"Merry Christmas, Mark."

* * *

 _ **»Author's Note:**_  
Just a little oneshot I wrote for a writing contest that I thought I'd upload as a belated Christmas present. I'll be taking it down from this story and uploading it to Prompts and Circumstance/Bricolage (I haven't decided if I want to change the title yet) sometime on Sunday.


	10. { a n d // y o u & i } n » At Odd Hours

**{ s u m m a r y }**

She promised she wouldn’t let him get too close. She promised she’d never let it become too much. However, promises were made to be broken, and hers were no exceptions. He’d given her his heart when she couldn’t accept it. For how could she take his heart when she was struggling to hold the shards of her own?

Finn had never wanted to break Bey, but break him she did. Now she was left picking up the pieces to put them away where they’d never be found again.

(an addition to you & i)

* * *

**{ e p i g r a p h }**

But I could never rescue you  
No matter how hard I tried.  
All I could do was love you hard  
And let you go.

{“Goodbye Until Tomorrow/I Could Never Rescue You,” The Last Five Years, Jason Robert Brown}

**{ d e d i c a t i o n }**

To the ones who are thought to be heartless simply because their hearts are shards that they can’t pick up in fear of being cut. Don’t let anyone pressure you into giving up any part of you before you are ready.

**{ a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s }**

Shoutout to God for—well, everything. And to The Sam Willows for their really chill song “All Time High” (which you should definitely check out) that led me to the musical The Last Five Years by Jason Robert Brown and inspired this short story.

**{ w a r n i n g }**

» abortion mention  
» drinking is bad for you kids  
» sexual themes (such as casual sex and rape; note that I do not condone rape in any way, shape, or form, but I am trying to tell the story from my character’s perspective, so there isn’t a clear anti-rape message)  
» spoilers for you & i (honestly, this short might not make sense without reading the original story)  
» sunken ships

* * *

**{ p r e f a c e }**

This… honestly was never supposed to happen. I meant to leave Finn as simply an ideal that faded and a girl that was misunderstood. She was never really supposed to be fully redeemed or explained because Beyond never really let her be anything but a paragon that failed to meet his expectations in the end. I, of course, knew Finn, but I was content with being the only one.

However, I was listening to the song “All Time High” (mentioned in the acknowledgments) and found The Last Five Years (also aforementioned) and realized that having the other person tell the story from end to beginning is actually super cool and is something I’d love to try. I already had the title “At Odd Hours” tucked away as an idea I’d actually had around the time I’d begun planning you & i. I’d shelved it because it was basically the same idea as you & i:

**{ s p o i l e r // y o u & i }**

a couple falling apart. I seem to have a knack for sinking ships. It worked out, though, considering I get to use my vague idea without having to worry about having the same story as you & i (if only because it is the same story, just from a different perspective).

But I’ll just let you get the story over with now.


	11. { a n d // y o u & i } i » At Odd Hours

**15:27**

She can hear the whispers. Her school is a rumor mill, and she is the material to be ground. With their stares and their words and their laughs, they are relentless. Subtlety is not their strong suit, and she wishes they would find someone else to talk about.

But they will never stop, so she pours herself a cup of whatever is on the kitchen counter. She figures she might as well give them more to talk about, and it’s much easier to ignore the whispers when she’s drunk. Once she’s finished her drink, she eagerly pours herself another cup and downs that even more quickly than the first. She has another, and another and another another _another a n o t h e r_ …

To be honest, she loses track of just how many drinks she’s had. Yet her mind is still buzzing with thoughts, and she knows she needs another. Only she can’t seem to be able to get the beverage to flow into her cup anymore, and the thought makes her want to cry. She won’t, however, because she knows they’re still watching her and whispering about her. They are always watching and whispering.

His hand saves her. Or maybe he just meant to save the floor from all of the alcohol she was spilling, but she doesn’t like to think like that. After all, everything is about her, isn’t it? When all eyes are on her and all talk is about her, how is she supposed to think otherwise?

She’s still thinking. She needs another drink.

“Woah, Finn,” he murmurs, his voice husky. Or maybe she’s imagining it, which she hopes because she never really liked husky voices anyway. Bey’s—or should she call him Beyond again?—voice was only ever husky when they were in bed, and it was the only time she didn’t mind. Maybe that was because she stopped thinking in bed.

She snaps back to the present when he dumps her drink in the sink. She’s infuriated because he just dumped the only thing that was supposed to help down the drain— _literally_. She knows it’s probably her fault. She slipped into her thoughts instead of staying rooted in reality, so he thinks she’s had too much to drink. It’s a ridiculous notion, she thinks, if only because she’s still thinking. Why does she think so much?

“That was mine,” she whines. She hates whining (because there’s no point in whining if you can do something or if you can’t do anything about it), but here she is, whining. It probably doesn’t matter, she thinks. She hates herself anyway.

He snorts, and she wonders why he’s even there with her. She’d rather drink and party without her brother breathing down her neck. Both of them have better things to do, better people to spend their time with. “You didn’t need it. Trust me.”

She usually does—trust him, that is. He is her brother, after all—but he just dumped her drink into the sink, so she’s not prone to trusting him at the moment. She doesn’t really have anything to say to him anymore, so she turns to the living room to dance.

He grabs her arm before she can leave, pulling her backward. She’s frustrated. What is he trying to accomplish? “Where are you going?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

There are only three things she can do at this party: dance, drink, and have sex. Those are the only things parties are good for, if only because the first two lead to the last activity, and the last thing on the list is the only thing that turns her mind off now. Bey—Beyond’s not around to distract her anymore.

She doesn’t really want to tell her brother her plans, even if she knows he’s planning on doing the same. So she ignores him, yanking her arm out of his grasp and pushing her way into the mass of bodies writhing in the living room. Wait, no. They’re not writhing; they’re dancing, and she’s going to do the same. Everyone’s a carbon copy of each other here because originality is overrated.

She misses the times when Bey— _Beyond_ would tell her that she is one in an infinity. She misses his dumb space puns (and his math puns, once she’d taught him enough). Actually, maybe she just misses him, but that’s impossible because she’s the one who led to the downfall of their relationship and because she’s the one who broke it off.

She’s stupid, if she’s going to be honest. But that doesn’t matter when someone takes to dancing behind her.

She turns around with a wide grin on her face, or at least she thinks she’s smiling. At this point, she’s lost control of her facial features, but she doubts a frown would deter the dancer behind her. It certainly wouldn’t deter her. “What’s your name?” she asks, because she thinks they’ve probably already exchanged greetings. Haven’t they?

He answers her, but she can’t really hear what he’s saying. Frankly, she doesn’t care. She just knows she’s found tonight’s one night stand, and that’s the most important part. That’s all that matters right now.

She giggles. She’s not really sure why, but hopefully whoever this guy is thinks it’s cute and maybe even thinks she’s cute. (She thinks giggles are obnoxious, but maybe he has different tastes.) “Want to go someplace quieter?” She reaches forward to place her hand on the left side of his chest, but she doesn’t have to reach far because he’s very, very close to her. She doesn’t think she likes it, but she decides she doesn’t care. She can’t be bothered, not anymore.

He says something again, but besides the sounds of her heart pumping and the bass thumping, she can’t really hear much else. Again, she decides that the words coming out of his mouth are unimportant. She’s sure they are. His words aren’t why she wants him, anyway. All she needs is his body on hers, and maybe her brain will finally let her be. She just wants to stop thinking for a while. Maybe forever if she can figure out how to accomplish that without Bey.

She takes his hand and guides him to an unoccupied bedroom. The door clicks shut, the lock slides into place, and she’s finally free.

* * *

 

**15:21**

He doesn’t understand. He never really has, not in the way he should. It’s not his fault; Bey just doesn’t know enough of the world. He’s so frighteningly naive that he believes that hard work and dedication is enough to drag the two of them out of their toxic mess of a relationship.

She wants to believe the same as Bey, but she knows better than to cling to such childish fantasies. To find true, pure romantic love at such a young age is much rarer than the young adult novels everyone is reading these days make it out to be. Frankly, she despises those books because they mislead young hearts and drive them to their own destruction. She may bring young hearts to ruin herself, but at least she never meant to.

She knows that she could have prevented so much, but hindsight and regrets mean nothing after the fact. All she can do now is try to make it right, no matter how much it’ll hurt Bey. No matter how much it will hurt her (but she won’t be able to show it).

He’s smiling at her even as he turns away from the flailing bodies on what was supposed to be the dance floor. She knows he hates parties, but she also knows that he hates being without her, so here they are. He’s smiling at her as if she’s beautiful even as she drags such ugly things into his life. She loves his smile; she loves how he seems so happy in such a broken world.

She can’t do this anymore. She can’t pretend that they can still be together and that they are doing just fine as a couple anymore. She can’t go on letting anyone—least of all Bey—believe that this relationship is healthy for anyone. He needs to stop idealizing her because she is the furthest thing from ideal. She needs to stop depending on him because he’s not ready for the burden named Infinity.

She’s heard that ripping off the Band-Aid is the more painless way to remove it. She’s not entirely sure that is true, but she supposes there’s some merit in forcing oneself to get the pain over with all at once rather than prolonging it. That’s what she’s attempting to do by breaking up with Bey.

He approaches her, still smiling. She knows the party hasn’t caused his smile; he’s far too pure for that. His smile is for her, and she wishes that it wasn’t and that they didn’t have to end like this.

“My dear Infinity,” he breathes, sliding his arms around her waist to pull her flush against him. He still has on his face that smile that’s slightly crooked if one looks at it long enough, and she almost forgets what she must do to that smile (and to him) because she loves it and its innocence and its vulnerability (and maybe even the person wearing it, but definitely not in the same way he’d like to believe) so, so much. “You’re the only sight worth seeing here.”

She loses the ability to breathe. She struggles to grin back but only succeeds in a faint half-smirk. Instead of responding to him—for what could she possibly say?—she simply slips her hand into his and leads him to a more secluded place. She doesn’t want this to become a spectacle. She has more respect for Bey than to break up with him in front of half the school.

When they are finally in an empty bedroom and she locks the door, Bey sits on the bed, his crooked little smile significantly less happy than before. “Normally you drink a lot more before we get to this point,” he jokes halfheartedly.

Her heart drops. She’s given him such bad impressions of her, and what she will do to him will only be worse. “No, no. That’s— That’s not why we’re here, Bey,” she sighs, settling into a desk chair rather than sitting next to him. The more physical distance, the better, she thinks. She can’t afford either of them becoming distracted, especially not her. She has one goal for her night with Bey, and she really can’t risk failing it.

He tilts his head so innocently, so ignorantly. “Then why are we here?” he asks, clearly oblivious to what must be done. She had underestimated his naivety, thinking he would have understood the situation by now. But then again, why would he when he’s still trying to understand his own little world of ideals?

She sucks in a short breath, realizing there is no easy way to word what she wants to say and still make it clear to him. “Bey, we need to break up,” she tells him directly. The Band-Aid is off, and she risks the wound either being given the chance to heal on its own or the wound being exposed to a filthy world from which it isn’t prepared to defend itself.

Much to her surprise, Bey isn’t as shocked as she thought he would be. His expression has turned into an odd combination of relief and sorrow. “We can still try to make us work,” he feebly protests, but they both know that she is right.

The corners of her lips curl into a melancholic smile. “You know that’s not true anymore.” She is still for a moment, unsure of what to do next. When Bey fails to say something, she stands, knowing he needs time alone to process what has just happened. She moves to open the door, only to be stopped by Bey speaking.

“But I love you.”

The tone of his voice is a strange amalgamation of emotions, much as his expression was. She can feel the heartbreak dripping off of his words and the hurt laced into the very essence of his proclamation. But most of all, she is frozen by the pure power of his infatuation and how fervently he believes his words to be true.

She shakes her head, refusing to turn toward him in fear of seeing his shattered heart and dropping the fragments of her own in response. “No, you don’t,” she says gently, trying to tell him kindly that he has mistaken his feelings for a relationship and his infatuation for love. Then, she lies straight through her teeth. “I don’t love you either.”

She hears the bed creak as he stands, freeing the springs of their burden. Oh, how she wishes her burden were lifted like so. “Finn—” he begins to speak, but she won’t let him sway her with his words. His vocabulary is dangerous ammunition; his speech, a deadly weapon.

“Let’s not delude ourselves into thinking we have true feelings for each other,” she forces herself to say, steeling herself to hold the tears back. She can’t let him see the way her face has contorted in pain nor how her hands are trembling as she unlocks the door. If he discovers how she truly feels about him (or if she admits how she feels to anyone including herself), then she will probably fall back under his spell, and the two of them will be stuck forever in a relationship that gives them nothing but pain.

She’d rather rip her heart out and feed it to the crows than allow Bey to fall into such ruin.

She twists the knob and throws open the door, flinging herself back into the crowd. In the kitchen, she orders ten shots of straight vodka for herself, much to the pleasure of those standing around her. She downs them quickly, numb to the burn and the cheers of the partygoers. The numbness continues even as she stumbles out the front door.

* * *

 

**13:19**

Despite the alarms going off in her head, she takes the red plastic cup from him. She knows she really shouldn’t allow him to give her drinks or lead her to the dance floor because, though she is here partying with him, she’s with _Bey_ , not him. Despite that, she has still come to this party with him, has still accepted the drinks he’s offered, and is still dancing with her body pressed to his.

This is all right, she thinks, because he knows it can’t go any further, and she will never cheat on Bey, even while drunk. She’s never even truly considered cheating on anyone, let alone her sweet, sweet Bey. She plans on staying true to him no matter how rocky their relationship becomes.

Except she starts to lose control of her own body. The room turns hazy, and the pounding in her head begins to drown out the noise. She stumbles, and suddenly someone’s hands are on her. _His_ hands are on her, and they venture far beyond simply catching her.

She wants to pull herself away and to scream at him, but she can’t move much. She struggles to resist the urge to close her eyes and lose herself in the darkness because his hands are all over her where she knows—and he knows—they shouldn’t be. But he’s not stopping, and she can’t do a single thing about it.

She feels him begin to pull her away, and she thinks that maybe he’s taking her somewhere quiet.  However, she can’t quite tell because her senses have long since dulled, and she isn’t sure if she’s still lucid anymore. Maybe this is all a dream, and she’s simply fallen asleep on the way home, and he’s not throwing her down on a bed and locking the door. Maybe he isn’t undressing her, and maybe he isn’t staring at her like a piece of game that he’s gone out and hunted down as a prize for his wall.

Yet she’s not going to fool herself into believing that. She knows that this is happening, that he is violating her, and that she won’t be able to do a single thing about it because she’s left herself vulnerable and open.

She thinks she hears him curse, and suddenly her vision is gone along with the freedom of her mouth. She isn’t quite sure what he’s used as a blindfold and a gag, but she supposes that it doesn’t really matter in this moment. She does know that her blindfold is growing increasingly wet, and it takes her a while to realize that it’s soaked in her own tears.

Telling herself that she doesn’t care about what’s happening because all of this is temporary anyway is something she’s used, but this time—in _this_ instance, she simply cannot fool herself into thinking that everything will turn out all right in the end. She cannot deceive herself into thinking that she doesn’t care. There is nothing she can do but let it happen and feel the pain of it all.

All she can properly understand through the haze of whatever drug he has given her is that 1) _she wants it to stop_ and 2) _she can’t do anything to stop it_. This is all too much, and she can’t stand it anymore. She succumbs to the darkness because the pain of her dreams is better than the pain of reality.

* * *

 

**09:15**

She tips her head backward as she downs her last shot, reveling in the cheers of the spectators around her. They are always— _always_ —watching, but this time she doesn’t mind much because they are encouraging her. But then again, aren’t they always encouraging her? Even if it’s only to her own doom, they are always pushing her toward something with their whispers and rumors and lies. They murmur under their breath, thinking she can’t hear; she smiles, bleeding where no one can see.

Not even Bey, poor, trying soul, can fathom the severity of her wounds. Though he is always by her side, worshipping her as if she were a deity and not a wretched mortal, battered and bruised, he still thinks he can comfort her with sweet nothings and fix her with false feelings. She knows their relationship probably won’t last—she’s known that for a while—but she loves the euphoria caused by the way he showers her in affection like a child looking for approval. Eventually, she will put them to rest, but for now she is content with basking in the glory Bey lavishes upon her.

And lavish glory upon her he does. She can’t help but feel giddy as his eyes drink her in as they dance together. Their bodies move in tandem, and the bass is making the whole house shudder, and somewhere deep down she is enjoying this despite knowing how wrong it is, to corrupt Bey like this.

She knows that, though she relishes the pathetic excuse for an escape parties offer her, Bey doesn’t share the same sentiments. She should really accept his other offers for dates, but they won’t present her with ways to make her brain stop working as her parties will. She’s not ready to give that up, not yet.

So she lets his lips sing her praises, and she lets his eyes marvel at her body. She encourages the way his fingers feel on her hips and the frenzy of his lips on hers. She continues their little game of deity and mortal, letting him sacrifice himself to her even if she knows their roles should be reversed.

Maybe the devil will be merciful to her in hell.


	12. { a n d // y o u & i } ii » At Odd Hours

**06:20**

She smiles, itching to get away from the idle gossip and small talk of people who haven’t drunk enough alcohol yet. The clock stands still, she thinks, but perhaps she is just tired of waiting for the one person she knows should be right next to her. Laughing at herself because Bey isn’t running late at all, she grabs herself a small bag of chips and heads to the living room to talk with her brother, who has clearly drunk more than she has.

The crowd watches the birthday boy in adoration, admiring his stupidity as he jumps all over the furniture in an attempt to add dramatic effect to a horrible enactment of a story he’s making up for his loyal fans. She isn’t sure the story makes sense, but she’s decided that isn’t worth her limited attention span (thanks to the alcohol). Instead, she simply amuses herself by watching her brother stumble around, trying to swashbuckle on the coffee table (but falling onto the couch in the end).

Somehow watching her brother turned into more drinking and more drinking, and the clock surely isn’t telling her the correct time anymore. This frustrates her because she’s still waiting for her boyfriend, but maybe he’s stood her up. She knows he wasn’t looking forward to the party and that he might have a good reason for not being with her, but the alcohol is drowning out her rational thought process. Perhaps it is time to sober up. (But she grabs another cup of beer anyway.)

The air is cool enough when she steps outside. She’s staring up at the beautiful night sky, vaguely remembering a night that she spent staring up at the stars like this. As she gazed up at the Roman goddess of love, she’d witnessed a fallen star shooting across the sky—

And suddenly, she’s falling.

Down, _down_ , _d o w n_ she goes, and she isn’t sure whether she’s having drunk hallucinations or if she’s actually seeing reality because she’s falling for Bey head over heels and heels over head. He looks absolutely astonished as she lands in his lap, her drink spilling all over him. She can’t help but giggle at the sight because despite the fact that she hates giggling, this entire situation is a literal representation of how she is tainting an otherwise pure Bey. And because she’s trying so hard not to cry at the moment, she’s giggling.

She somehow manages to pull herself up to a standing position, apologizing to Bey. She still isn’t sure what thoughts are racing through his mind because he’s still just wide-eyed. Nevertheless, she tries to make amends, smiling and saying, “Come inside, and I’ll get you a change of clothes.” Unsure of whether he will respond, she takes his hand in hers and drags him into the chaos inside the house.

He seems hesitant, glancing warily around at the drunk teenagers talking loudly and stumbling around him, and she giggles. He needs to loosen up, she thinks, so she swipes a bottle of vodka from under the sink where her parents hide the good drinks. After she’s tucked the vodka under her arm, she pours a generous amount of beer from the keg into a red plastic cup and hands it to him, winking. “It’s the only way to forget everything here and just have fun,” she told him, pouring her own serving.

He gingerly holds the cup with an expression that she doesn’t want to see, so she quickly turns away and leads him to outside her brother’s room. She leaves him in the hallway to quickly grab a shirt and a pair of shorts, and then they are off to her room so he can have some privacy to change out of his beer-drenched outfit.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t accounted for the sex-crazed teenagers when she’d left her room unlocked earlier, so her screams are filled with shock and disgust as the barely clothed couple dash out of her room. She continues screaming, completely caught by surprise by this turn of events, but somehow through her shrill tone of voice, she can hear his faint chuckle. With one turn of her head, his lips are on hers, and she doesn’t realize until he stumbles into the bed that all of her poise and rationality has really abandoned her.

She quickly forces herself away from him and locks the door shut, in case any other couple decides to try something in her bedroom. (But she knows she is just like them, so why do they repulse her so much?) She picks up the vodka from where it had fallen on the floor. As she nears the bed, she notices the glimmer of fear in his eye.

His fear is enough to stop her.

Trying to give him a gentle, reassuring smile, she sits down onto the bed beside him, draining her cup of beer in an attempt to chase away any inappropriate thoughts. He is not ready. She lifts the bottle of vodka with a slight lilt of a smile, twisting the cap off and eagerly refilling her cup. All she wants is to drown her troubles in alcohol until her body is as numb as her heart feels. She tries to forget that he is right there with her, but maybe that’s an impossible feat for her, she realizes, as she leans into him.

He is intoxicating, and she just can’t seem to get enough of the way he makes her focus on only him, him, _him_. This is what she wants, she thinks. Her brain has shut down, and her lips are on his, and there’s something that’s just so natural about the way she absorbs his innocence, layering corruption upon corruption until she’s sure that he will never be the same. She is vile, and he is pure, and sometimes she wonders how far she can go before he is either completely tainted or shattered. Perhaps she’ll test the limits tonight.

After all, love’s a game, and there’s no point in winning once if she doesn’t win for all eternity.

* * *

**06:16**

_Why is he here?_

He just holds her as she sobs, but she can’t help but wonder why he is here. He really shouldn’t be here; he will never be able to fathom what she must deal with every day, poor, naive soul. He doesn’t even know what day it is, whose birthday it should have been, the crime she has committed. It’s strange, really, that when she looks down at her hands, she sees scarlet blood dripping off one while the other is as sterile as the doctor’s equipment.

He is still there when she looks up again. She chokes back her sobs, trying to maintain enough of her composure so that she can lie to him as always. She’s all right, she wants to say, hoping he’ll accept that (even though it’s clear she is not). For how could anyone possibly accept the truth?

She doesn’t understand him, how one can be so oblivious, so ignorant to the world around oneself. One day something will teach him the true nature of the world they live in—odious, cruel, and deceptive. For a brief moment, she wonders if she will be that something, as she is clearly the manifestation of every evil one could find on this godforsaken planet.

As she tells him her secret—for a reason only God knows—she thinks about how some people would tell her that it was for the best, that she wasn’t ready for a child. And she agrees. But she can’t help but feel that she has taken life from someone who desperately wanted—no, needed it, even if others don’t consider her child a true and proper baby, even if she wouldn’t have been able to provide a good home for her child. No one knows what or whom she’s lost (not even she does), but she can feel it in her gut that she has lost a child she could have learned to love, no matter what anyone says.

Now, she thinks, she’ll never properly love anyone, least of all herself.

* * *

**02:04**

She laughs at his joke, tipping her head back in mirth despite the fact that her heart is dropping in realization. He asks her to grab them a pair of seats while he goes to get them concessions; she almost asks him to grab a six-pack of beer. She almost regrets her decision to date him exclusively, but perhaps it will prove to be beneficial to her—like a life-changing, life-improving kind of thing—or, at the very least, a good distraction and a fun time.

But when she sees his enthusiasm betraying his ignorance, she briefly wonders if maybe this whole relationship will be much more painful for her than it will be for him. She quickly puts that notion away because she's here for a good time, not to be buried in her own destructive thoughts. Falling apart can wait until later.

As the night progresses, she decides that Bey is absolutely charming. Once she slips past his awkwardness, she realizes that he has an actual sense of humor, far more elevated than the crude jokes most guys she’s encountered tell. He’s simply sweet and kind, even if in his nervousness he makes insignificant social blunders. She decides that he’s the perfect boyfriend, but she doesn’t know if that’s what she wants.

After all, if Bey is the perfect boyfriend, why would he want a less-than-perfect girlfriend?

* * *

**00:00**

He’s a bit dull, she thinks at first, as he rambles on about his thoughts on the sculpture. She’s not sure if he knows that she doesn’t think much of the piece—after all, it’s just pretentious trash that didn’t quite make it into an actual display—but despite all this, he still continues on, marveling at the care and effort the artist has put into the piece.

As their conversation about it continues, she finds herself looking at the paper sculpture in a more favorable light, but perhaps this is because of his sheer enthusiasm about the topic. She finds herself swept up into the majesty of what this sculpture means, and it scares her a bit, to be honest, of this boy’s ability to make her care about something that will become so meaningless once she leaves the museum.

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s influenced her as he moves the topic from what art classes they’re taking to their favorite painters. She finds amusement in the fact that his favorite art style is impressionist while he himself is so impressionable. Then, in the midst of his animated babbling about Leonard Asimov or whoever his favorite artist is, he turns to her with frightening speed and asks, “Who is your favorite artist?”

And she freezes. Normally, she would explain to him that she is actually not interested in art at all, but there is something about him that makes her want to live up to the expectations he’s built up for her. She answers quickly with an artist she barely remembers from her art appreciation class, relieved when he accepts her answer.

Eventually, she finds the opportunity to rejoin a couple of her friends that also went on the field trip, but she can’t help but feel shaken. He clearly thinks the world of her for some odd reason, even though she is one of the most vile creatures he’s ever come across, she’s sure. Her image in his mind must be to unrealistic to be sustainable, yet she feels some ill urge to maintain it.

This is why, she realizes, that if they prolong their acquaintanceship into friendship and perhaps even a romantic relationship, she will break all of his expectations eventually, consequently breaking him. Or, perhaps, he will break her.


End file.
